On Christmas and Frenemies
by Bandita-Dieci
Summary: Will invites Freddie over for Christmas because even journalists should have people. Sometimes. Maybe.


Christmas Eve finds Will Graham standing just outside the journalist's apartment, hands shoved in his back pockets, eyes not _entirely_ focused on the overcast sky, breath coming out in little clouds. He's already knocked - an attempt to be polite, as always - although he doesn't quite expect an answer. _He_ wouldn't answer, in her place.

No.  
On second thought, he would.  
If he truly thought otherwise, he wouldn't have shown up.

The blinds flicker - _he is seen_ \- and it is not the first time he tells himself that he's placing himself squarely in the jaws of a jackal. _Vulture_ might be more appropriate, except he needed something with teeth.

When the door opens, he is still facing half away, sees her out of the corner of his eye, and waits for the scathing remark.

"Bored on Christmas, Will? Or did you lose one of your strays?"

He should have brought one of them with him. _Lincoln_ , maybe, as the little Westie's high-strung personality would certainly have met its match here. Will can't be sure, but he thinks Lincoln would have won, and that makes this easier.

"Are you alone?"

As soon as he says it, Will hates it - a not agent asking a journalist who has written nothing good about him if she's _alone_ \- and corrects himself immediately, the words jumbling together, one hand out as though the motions would make explanations easier. "Not _alone_ , but. For the holidays. No one to share the wealth with?"

That's a cliche. He hates that, too.

His attempts to sound _easy_ fall flat, and he can see that on her face, the smug little _not a smile_ etched into her face. _And you care why?_ She doesn't have to say it - _she says something else_ , something that would bite if he wasn't hearing the underlying question - but that's what he hears.

Shut it off.

Will shoves his hand back into his pocket, finally turns to face her fully, leans back on one heel. Fidgeting. He knows his movements mean he's uncomfortable in the same way that he knows leaning against the door frame with the door barely propped open is a false sense of bravado in a far rougher neighborhood than he expected her to live in.

"I have a proposition for you."

He's rehearsed this part because he wanted to keep all of his own bitterness out of his tone. He feels a little like he's selling himself, but the truth is that without a master, a stray dog does what it can to get by. Isn't that how life is?

"Come spend lunch with my family tomorrow. My sister has been following your blog for years now, and she'd probably die if you came." Will doesn't pause - the joke is intentional - doesn't want to let her get a word in edgewise until he's done. "I won't be able to keep you from using it - any of it - but if you _don't_ , I'll give you an interview." A pause, taking a breath. "One. And I'll be as honest as I'm able to be."

Then, he waits. It takes a full minute, the redhead making herself more comfortable against the door frame, and he knows it's only that, _maybe_ , he's thrown her off guard by asking and she's trying to determine whether or not he's lying.

"It's a little late to be setting up a _date_ , Will."

She can't read him, not really, because it seems to him like she's missing the underlying theme of _his_ words the way he sometimes can't help but pick up on that of everyone else.

Her arms cross just so. "And if I have plans?"

"You're a journalist making her living off of me. I think whatever it is, you can reschedule." The bitterness creeps in easily enough, and he hates himself for it - can feel the anger creeping up underneath. _That_ he hates _more_.

Another pause, and he expects one of her signature remarks, something that _should_ make him feel like trash but will only serve to rile up the anger already lurking just beneath the surface.

"What's the address?"

* * *

All in all, she hadn't _needed_ an address. His mother and sister drove up from Louisiana to see him, and if memory served, the journalist already knew where he lived - not that _he'd_ read her blog, but that Sarah had and pointed out the pictures and asked him _why, if the esteemed Freddie Lounds had been to his house, he hadn't told her_. He hadn't told her because he hadn't known, but Sarah refused to take that for an answer.

By the time she arrives, most of their family traditions are passed - cinnamon rolls for breakfast, presents open (all of the dogs got their own bones, except for Lincoln who wanted carrots instead), and the wrapping paper carefully folded and put away for next year. Perhaps most importantly, they'd been told of the potential guest (Sarah squealed, but Will's mother gave him a careful look that he understood all too well. He couldn't explain his underlying reason to her, either, because he wasn't sure he could explain it to himself) and so made sure to all be dressed in clothes more appropriate to receiving an additional, non-familial person.

The dogs bark as soon as she approaches, a chorus of rougher tones and high-pitched yapping that only grew _louder_ as she knocks on the door. (Sarah is really too old to squeal again, even though she has the tendency to do so on occasion. But there's something about making that _unsightly_ noise when her idol is standing just outside and can likely _hear her_ that prevents another sound. When Will looks at his baby sister, all he can see are wide, bright eyes and the most excitement he has ever seen. He remembers when she found her blog, how she would ramble on for hours about every article and little tidbit, just gushing about how much she wanted to be _like her_. It was only later that Sarah realized she didn't have the innate cutthroat nature required of the job and turned to more... _practical_ pursuits. Will turns to her now, glances to his mother, who simply nods. Not that they had a choice in the matter - not now, anyway.)

He opens the door.

"Merry Christmas." Will smiles, all bared teeth and attempts at joviality.

"Merry Christmas, Will." She can be charming when she needs to be, doesn't make any sort of expected biting comment, likely because there are other people involved, and one is a fan. Will might be a lost cause, but his family isn't. Yet. "Where's the pack? Or is it not a family affair?"

"In their cages." This, in his mind, is the worst part of the arrangement. "Some of them are very protective, and I wasn't sure they'd like you." Not entirely a lie. Fly would have been fine, and as long as he was given attention, so would Lincoln. But Champ is too energetic for these sorts of social gatherings, Rex and Bucky too protective, and Buzz is...well, Buzz is Buzz. "Wouldn't be a good host if I put my guest in danger, would I?"

It's an awkward laugh, just the barest hint of a chuckle, but it's there all the same. He regrets it as soon as it happens, regrets her hearing him apparently _merry_ over the idea of a guest being _killed_. The problem is this - without his dogs needing to be corralled, without having Lincoln nipping at his heels and demanding to be pet (and constantly underfoot), his hands and his mind are free. He does not know quite what to do with them, shoves his hands in his back pockets again until that makes him feel like an ashamed teenager, takes them out and crosses his arms instead.

His mind is a lot harder to distract.

 _He wants to let her know that if she does anything to hurt his sister, he will kill her and not feel an ounce of regret for it. Nothing personal. He'd do the same to anyone. But it doesn't need to be said. That'd be a soundbite worthy of quoting in her next update. And if he honestly believed she would intentionally hurt her, he would never have invited her._

Will doesn't entertain thoughts of murder - not his own, but sometimes those of the people blurred into his mind. None of them want to kill the journalist standing in front of him, and for this, he is grateful.

"Come in. Stay awhile. _We_ don't bite."

* * *

It is the first moment that feels the most tense, the moment when she follows him into the dining room and Sarah is brimming over with excitement, his mother wary but calm. He wished he had her peace of mind. He wished he had any peace of mind at all.

Sarah knows, instinctively, as all people (other than children) do, that you don't hug a celebrity. But she takes the gloved hand in one of her own, all smiles and beaming, and for once in her life is blissfully stunned into silence. _What do you say to someone you've looked up to for years?_ Sometimes you ramble - she'll get there, maybe, during the meal, as she becomes more comfortable (and Will is, of course, worried about this) - but sometimes you are so overwhelmed that nothing comes out at all (or you keep your mouth shut because you know you'll just sound like an idiot and you'd rather be silent than remembered negatively).

"I'm _so_ happy you're here!" Sarah says, finally, as her mother takes the journalist's hand - and it's here, maybe, that the threat is most real and yet passes without incident. Melinda does not like what her daughter says this woman has been writing about her youngest son, and the words are quick on the edge of her tongue, _but Will got his empathy from somewhere, and it certainly wasn't his father_. She sees something in the journalist's eyes that Will does not, something almost familiar, and places her other hand on hers, wraps the gloved hand in both of her own.

"Melinda Bellow. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine." It's already a tidbit - _Will Graham, the child of a widow or a divorcee or adopted, she doesn't know which yet, but parental troubles breed further speculation_ \- one that could just as easily be followed up on during the promised interview later. And if there is no interview, then she has this to scour through. Very lucrative indeed.

He can feel the wheels turning in her head because he has nothing to distract his, and he hates it.

"Let's sit." Will gestures to his small table - small not by necessity but simply because he rarely has anyone else over and therefore has never really needed a _larger_ one. There's enough space for the four of them to sit reasonably well, but any more and they would be pushing it. Fortunately, there's no need to squabble over who sits at the head of the table; it's not nearly long enough for that. "You're a vegetarian, right?"

"I hope that doesn't throw your entire meal off."

It's subtle, but he feels the jab. A side glance, and Sarah's eyes are wide, head tilted to the side. "I've been thinking about doing that, but it's always sounded _super_ hard. Doesn't that get complicated, with having to come up with the different foods and things, to make sure you've gotten everything? So you don't, like, get undernourished or anything?"

"No. It just takes focus. You could do it if you put your mind to it." She's mostly looking at Sarah when she says this, but when she finishes, it's a look to Will and that _not quite smile_ where he feels like he's caught between her teeth. Her hands straighten her skirt as she sits.

"I don't think so," Sarah says with a small shake of her head. "I tried once a few months ago - there's one of these thirty day trial periods, kind of like with tvs and programs and shit-" She stops for a moment, catches herself too late, blinks rapidly. "Sorry, sorry, that was...that's not, I mean-" And she blushes, stares down at her hands where they are tangled in her lap, tight on the fabric of her skirt.

"It didn't go well?"

Melinda hears it better than Will but has no way of placing it - _he_ knows where to place it, can see Abigail Hobbs sitting in a chair with her hands clasped together, a scarf hiding the bandage on her neck, can feel her father sitting in the back of his mind ( _See?_ but he doesn't, for once he doesn't) - and so it's _she_ who watches the way her daughter relaxes at the words, the tone, while Will's dark eyes focus fiercely on his guest, who, for once, does not appear to be focused on him.

"It went alright, I guess." Sarah takes her fork, taps it against her teeth, and laughs a little. "I just kept forgetting I was _on_ it. Kept getting halfway through one of mom's tuna casseroles and, like, _shit, I'm not supposed to be eating this!_ " She looks at Will, elbows him. "Speaking of, where's the grub? I don't know about _you_ ," and here she looks at her, almost conspiratorially, and _that's the in_ , "but I've been waiting _all day_ for this."

Will knows the smile, knows to regret it, knows the tone before she even says it.

"Me, too."

* * *

It is Melinda who eventually asks, with an air of gentility that her son could never quite master, if Freddie will accompany her to the kitchen for the desserts. If it had been Will, the answer would have been a very firm, very final no - albeit worded in a much less _blunt_ manner - but Will would never have thought to ask, would never have asked a guest in the first place, _and certainly would never have asked her_. In point of fact, when his mother asks, there's the raised eyebrow, the quiet astonishment, because Will has never quite learned how to control his facial expressions when it comes to familial shock. (It is worse, perhaps, when Melinda takes her by the hand and leads her away. These are things Freddie stows away for future use, even if only for her private entertainment.)

When they are alone, the older woman lets out a little sigh, shakes her head, runs her hand through dark curls. "I wanted to apologize for my daughter. I am afraid she is being overwhelming." Her words sound not _stilted_ but different, with a feigned sort of elegance not to be expected by anyone within Agent Graham's family.

"Don't worry about it. She's young."

"It's hard to imagine a nice young lady like you rambling on like my Sarah." Melinda laughs, but it isn't a cruel thing in the slightest - not the familiarity of her daughter, but not the bitterness of her son. Simple _weariness_ mixed with mirth. " _I_ was never a rambler until I got into boys, then _hoo boy_ , you should have heard me talk about my men. Haven't done that in a while, though. Aged out of me, I think."

It's a moment - she catches it, tries to catch the silver thread of it and wind it between her fingers - a _lasso_ , if she plays things correctly. "I'm surprised you don't have a man in your life, Ms. Bellow. A nice woman like you? Men are probably falling at your feet."

Flattery is the easiest way to get someone to talk.

"Well," Melinda begins, opening her son's refrigerator to pull out a store-bought cherry pie, "to be quite honest with you, I ain't been much interested since I left Will's dad. Men just lost the spark they used to have."

"What happened?" It's a leading question - simple, but effective if the other person wants to talk.

Melinda pauses, puts the pie on the countertop. "Will's dad was not a very nice guy - I'll leave it at that. But I'm sure you understand - every gal's got a story like it. Some of us just learn faster than others." A look to the other woman, small sort of examination, smaller sort of smile, pats Freddie's gloved hand just so. "You look like one of the fast ones."

It's not unnerving to hear.

"Now, if you'll hand me that knife, we can get this dessert out there."

* * *

When she finally decides to leave, Will follows her, shuts the door behind them. He pauses on the porch and waits for the expected question, hands clasped behind his back. (If his mother saw him, she would see his father. She would not tell him.) It takes another moment before he realizes that _he_ is expected to ask a question as well.

He decides against it.

"I don't care what my mother told you in the kitchen."

He does.

The journalist turns to him with a smile, that way her head tilts ever so slightly and he feels like a piece of meat. "When's the interview, Will?"

"After my mother and Sarah leave. End of the week at the soonest. New Year's at the latest." He pauses, and now the smile is genuine. "Unless you have plans? A party you want to crash? I hear a celebrity or two may be coming to visit."

Those events are much better staffed. Jack has invited him to the office New Year's Party, but he won't go. Will doesn't trust himself when he's drinking _or_ around the other agents while _they_ are. Someone will end up getting punched in the face, and there's a certain awkward air to wanting police to break up a fight where FBI agents (or not) are involved.

The journalist just hands him a card - the _second_ one he's had (the one he stole from Abigail still rests in his jacket pocket; he's forgotten he had it and _will_ until the next time he wears it). "Call me. _Before_ the end of the year."

He wants to ask _or what?_ but he knows the answer all too well. It's the real reason she agreed to join them, isn't it? Instead, he just watches as she leaves, goes back inside and slowly lets his pack out of their cages. Lincoln nips his fingers for leaving him in too long.

Will notices his mother's presence behind him before she even says anything.

"Why did you invite her, Will?"

He shrugs once, rubs a hand through the little Westie's fur. "Thought Sarah would enjoy it."

"Don't lie to your mama, boy. Tell me the _real_ reason."

Lincoln separates himself, scratches his ear, runs off to join Sarah in the kitchen, where she might give him some of the leftovers from lunch (and pauses at the table to see if there are any crumbs there).

"No one should have to be alone on Christmas."


End file.
